As co-authors, Radoslav Radushev-Radus and George Petkov-Mareto believe in equal rights so their stories often take unexpected turns and never arrive at their destination unchanged. Their writings first go through a process of cross-examination by a lawyer (Radus) before ending up on the desk of a long-time dedicated teacher and mentor (Mareto). All this is accompanied by much drinking of coffee, raising of eyebrows and a general lack of sympathy for broken pencils and software updates.

Radus believes in the power of free speech to teach responsibility and Mareto hastens to add that it must be properly punctuated, grammatically consistent and socially aware.

Some of their stories actually survive.

A way with ghosts

The place was crawling with ghosts and because they are insubstantial it is quite hard to stop them. Impossible, even. One would pop up at the most inopportune moment to remind him of last year’s resolution or a chance, which he had unwittingly squandered in his humility. Sometimes they nagged him about this or that invitation by a woman with amazing plans for cohabitation and promises of poetic ecstasy, which he had politely ignored by switching his phone off. G. Host was an unassuming middle-aged man, living a life of solitude in the suburbs, where he could nurture his passion for gardening. He had been married once. He was not sure exactly when but some time must have passed if the frayed curtains and faded flowers on the tablecloth were anything to go by.

Nevertheless, he made sure the house was always neat and tidy. Not that he ever received any visitors. He and his friends had drifted apart and now he called them only on holidays. He hated intruding.

When ghosts first appeared, he put it down to his reclusive lifestyle and thought picking up a hobby would help. He started building model ships but soon ran out of patience and besides, the ghosts never left. When he tried talking to his friends, the only piece of advice he got was to find a woman. Easier said than done.

He had been popular with women once. The memory stung though, because he never found the right one to share his life with. He blamed his misfortunes on them at first but as the years went by, he started looking for answers within himself.

He pondered his next move regarding the ghosts. He had no relatives to turn to for help. His colleagues would probably think him insane. Yet a solution had to be found so he decided to run an online search. He found himself looking at an advertisement for a full exorcism kit with an illuminated pentagram and incense candles thrown in for good measure. He would not choose this option unless he was desperate so he decided to pursue more traditional avenues.

At the National library he discovered a trove of old books among the rare books stack which addressed unexplained phenomena. It surprised him how many well-documented ghost encounters there were on record. The next couple of days no one bothered him in the reading room. No other visitors seemed to be interested in this section of the library. At one point, an old librarian gave him a long suspicious stare as if he had no right to be there. Still, the old man was kind enough to retrieve some manuscripts from the stack section that existed as a single copy.

The librarian also enquired about the purpose of G.Host’s visit. G. Host thought there would be no harm in sharing his story and the old man turned out to be a good listener. If he had been surprised by G.Host’s story he did not show it and asked instead whether G.Host would be interested in a free subscription for the “Secrets and mysteries” magazine and if he would kindly leave his current address for correspondence if that were the case. A funny old man!

When G.Host returned to the orderliness of his home that only a deep love for one’s dreams and their near-mystic connection to the art of being yourself could achieve, the ghosts scrambled for his attention.

He had read in a grimoire that a person could slip away from the ghosts’ clammy fingers and cold, sticky embrace by getting down to work. Most books also contained detailed accounts of the unspeakable horrors, ghosts were known to inflict upon poor souls, but he gave these a miss on purpose. A few hours’ worth of reading rewarded him with a full list of the methods people had used to ward off demons though acquiring the necessary materials would pose some problems. He gave this some thought and eventually decided the methods were outdated and needed editing. For instance, he had noticed warm sunny weather disagreed with a ghost’s disposition. Perhaps working in the garden would do the trick.

His mood visibly improved. Spring was coming with the promise of trimming shrubs in the garden, making mulch circles and raking leaves. Hoeing weeds would work up enough warmth in his hands to drive the ghosts back the way they had come. The weather was looking up and the first days of spring were just around the corner.

On his way home from another afternoon spent at the library, G.Host realized it was too late for gardening. The ashen sky above the western ridge of the mountain threw the trees, stone fences and gables of nearby houses in long eerie shadows as if they were sculptures of the imagination suddenly come alive. Once he unlocked the gate, he went straight inside the house, then he changed his clothes, put an old cardigan around his shoulders and sat on his chair out on the terrace. He took a sip from the coffee he brewed in a pot for as long as he remembered and watched the dance of shadows like a spectator in the theatre.

Kitty appeared out of nowhere, sat on her haunches and squinted. The whole business with death and rebirth was a routine arrangement for her so she made sure he understood she liked having dinner on time in any one of her reincarnations. This contract between the two of them could not be violated without throwing the universe into chaos so G.Host scratched her between the ears and went inside to get dinner ready. Though he lived alone, the negligence bachelors showed to homemade meals was alien to him and he mostly avoided fast food. A matter of principle. Strict meal times was another one of his principles the cat respected by turning up at the appointed hour like a lady walking the catwalk with the whole world at her feet. He soon returned with a tray and a small plate for the stray princess which he put down before heading for the table.

Getting dinner ready had not taken long but, in the meantime, all vestiges of light had disappeared, a cold breeze descended from the mountain and the garden was plunged into darkness. Yet, an even darker patch was nestling near the table outlined against the background. He slowed down and made the last few steps with an effort of will as if his life depended on it.

The dark patch reached up to help him set the table. For the sake of good manners, he considered refusing but could not summon enough courage. The cat had taken her leave so he decided to leave her food on the ledge. Dinner passed in silence as the dark figure made no attempt to start a conversation. G.Host felt a lump in his throat and did not know what to think. He called to mind all ghosts he had met but they were as talkative as old friends. This one felt distant and the soup as well as his appetite went cold.

G.Host made sure he stayed long enough not to hurt the ghost’s feelings, then cleared the table and cast one final glance around hoping to see Kitty before he went inside and locked the door. He doubted this would be enough to keep the new visitor at bay but at least he had dropped a hint. The other ghosts did not show up and for once their absence made him nervous. They could have given him a clue about the identity of the dark shadow at least. He missed the cat more than ever.

He had no memory going to bed.

Sleep only came at the break of dawn after a restless night. In the morning, he got up early, went to the bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror. His eyes were sunken from lack of sleep. The memories of yesterday came back unbidden. He was hoping it was a bad dream but did not dare to check outside. He quickly got dressed, took the backstairs and came out the back door. The ghosts were not around and neither was the cat who had the habit of greeting her patron every day.

He could not yet fully figure out the relationship between cats and ghosts. Anyway, in his opinion cats were at least as complicated as ghosts but it was too early in the morning to pursue that kind of mental challenge. Instead, he tried counting the hours he had until sunset. It was late February and the days were still short so he had nine hours to deal with his occult problems. He remembered the kind old librarian and suddenly felt like talking to him. And it just might be that the old man had some useful advice to give.

The old man seemed like a decent chap. Recent events were rather unusual to say the least and G. Host would not miss a chance, however slim, to find answers to his questions.

Three minutes to nine, he got off the bus and headed for the entrance to the library across the park. The old librarian was sitting on a bench next to the monument. He had not seen him approaching. G.Host came up close and greeted him:

“Hello.”

The silence that followed made him uncomfortable. The librarian looked up and peered at him oddly. Perhaps he could not recognize him. A few seconds passed before the man responded and what he said was a bit unexpected.

“I may have an idea about your ghosts.”

“I wouldn’t say they are exactly mine,” pointed out G.Host, who  disliked the idea of being thus privileged. Just like any other mortal he wanted to be an ordinary man, visited by very ordinary ghosts, which was perfectly normal.

“Let’s go inside,” said the old man, got up and headed for the gate.

An old couple sitting near watched them pass by and whispered something in each other’s ears. G.Host tried not to fall behind the librarian. They went in, crossed the central foyer and through a side corridor reached an inner reading room which was empty.

The librarian urged G.Host to take a seat next to him and said without preamble:

“On the contrary, they are yours. Here! Take a look,” and he pointed a finger at a marked page from a thick book full of illustrations. An engraving on the left page showed a man in the middle of a flowery field, surrounded by the souls of men with grotesque faces who appeared to be chastising him, “these are the Asphodel meadows. The one in the middle…”

“It doesn’t matter who he is,” said G.Host in a voice that was about to break.

“Doesn’t matter? What do you mean?”

“It doesn’t! The ghosts have left!” G.Host suddenly felt like leaving but the librarian held him by the hand.

“People vanish all the time, boy! Ghosts don’t leave just like that.”

G.Host fell silent, pondering the events of the previous night.

Perhaps he had imagined the shadow? People his age were known to have even stranger visions. Especially if they lived alone.

He was certain evil seeps into your mind and spreads slowly like poison in water. Resisting it only churns the water faster. Maybe if he put a brave face on and stayed in the company of others for longer, his perspective on life would change. Little steps. He loved saying happiness and evil should be taken with a teaspoon.

“You are holding something back! What is it?” the librarian asked insistently.

The old man’s voice drew G.Host back but the shadow from his dream reached for his throat and he opened up:

 “Something else came. But it is not a ghost. It has no face – just a shadow. Darker than darkness. Like …,” but the words refused to come out.

“Like this?” the librarian turned a page from the book. G. Host found himself staring at a full-page engraving of the shadow without a face. It was larger than life though there was hardly anything around it. The white page simply got darker towards the middle as the hand of the artist had made bolder and bolder strokes as dread overcame his mind.

G.Host gaped at the engraving, unable to tear his eyes away from the apparition. 

“What is this book? What does it say about HIM?”

The old man raised a hand to calm him:

“According to the book this is the figure that appears to mortals when they come to the end of the road. Let us not jump to conclusions though! Before we decide what to do, we need to learn more about your visitor. Did you say the ghosts disappeared when he came to you?”

“Yes! And Kitty too,” added G.Host and explained: “My cat!”

“Right! As far as the ghosts are concerned, we have an explanation. It says here…,” and he read out loud:

“Ghosts date back thousands of years and come in all shapes and kinds. Contrary to popular belief they appear only amongst the living. They do not haunt graveyards or old abandoned houses. Since they are connected to the world of the living, they cannot leave unless this connection is severed. They cannot be driven away by any means if they so choose to harass the living. The fears, sins and shattered hopes of their victims easily encourage them. They stay until such a time as the sinners lose the ability to live or find inner peace.”

G.Host interrupted the old man:

“But my sins are hardly graver than those of some people I know.”

The old man responded with the kind of confidence that would have sounded strange had it come from someone else:

“Sins you may not have in your eyes but in the eyes of others. It may be that the ghosts were sent to you by someone else.”

G.Host frowned trying to understand. The old man explained:

“It is said we cannot sleep when we are in someone else’s dream. The ghosts might be consigned to you, so to say. It is only that whoever did this cannot wish them back. They remain yours forever. There is something else which bothers me more. If something else entirely comes into our world from beyond, it can simply draw them to itself. Your ghosts did not vanish. I fear the shadow may have drowned them in its darkness.”

Silence followed. G.Host was afraid where this line of reasoning would take him. His strength left him. He thought about his life until yesterday. He was not a bad man. Change was the last thing he wanted. Yes, there were decisions in his life he regretted and if he had just a bit more time, he would do all he could to set things right. Just a bit of time.

“Time is running out,” the voice of the librarian sounded almost biblical. “We need to take action!”

“Take action? How? What can I do against this horrible spirit?”

The old man pushed himself up and said:

“You are in luck! I know who we can ask for help. You do not need to get involved. On second thoughts, it might be best if you left.”

G.Host did not believe he had received a more reasonable piece of advice in a long time. Habits, however, die hard.

“And who is going to take care of the house, the garden and Kitty? The flowers need water,” he sounded heartbroken but deep inside he knew this was hardly the time to worry about mundane things. “Ok, I get it!” he said finally and turned to leave.

The old man held his gaze for a second, nodded reassuringly and added:

“Should you choose to call at your house, you may see things that are strange but you must not fear. Take nothing from there. You won’t need it.”

G.Host felt he had to say something but did not know what. This was the first time he was not alone and could rely on someone.

“Thank you!” he said eventually and left.

When the door closed, the librarian waited a few minutes before calling a number. Someone answered. The old man gave an address and hung up. He held his breath and then sighed with relief. He looked tired.

G.Host was in no hurry to go home. Once he left the library, he passed by the university building and headed for the metro station. Young people passing by were smiling and laughing, too busy making plans for Friday evening and the general future to notice G.Host. Their carefree nonchalance was endearing though they hardly guessed its true value.

It was already getting dark by the time G.Host turned the corner of his street, much as he had been doing all these years.

A van was parked in front of his house and three men wearing black got out. G.Host stopped by the electricity substation and waited for the men to go in. He then walked from the back of the house and peeked around the corner. The shadow from the night before was bent over the table limp and lifeless while the three men in black came closer and in one practiced move threw a black cloth over it. Then they lifted it with such ease that G.Host thought it must be as light as a feather. The men got the shadow in the back of the van and drove off. G.Host stayed put until he was sure the sound of the van was lost in the distance. Then he emerged on the terrace and looked around. All was much as it had ever been. Nothing had changed.

Suddenly he was curious. Who were those people who so expertly dealt with the supernatural? Members of a clandestine and very efficient organization that few people knew anything about? Ghosts also needed taking care of after all. This can’t have been the first one that those men came in contact with. G.Host tried to imagine how many unexplained events cast their dark shadows over the lives of people, too busy to pay attention.

Shadows of houses and trees brought by the last rays of a setting sun alighted for their evening walk in the garden but G.Host had no eyes for them. He was gazing right in front, lost in thoughts of his own. The evening was calm and quiet. The noise from the houses modulated down to conversations round the dinner table and then faint whispers which faded away completely when the wind picked up. The lights in the windows went out one by one.

G.Host remained in the garden. He was a bit cold but felt the kind of calmness he had not felt since childhood. How long he had stayed like this, he could not tell but soon he heard the rooster’s crow. Here in the suburbs, this signaled the middle of the night and had been the wake-up call for early risers since the dawn of time.

It was four o’clock in the morning when ghosts, spirits and faeries departed our world.

If someone could see him right now, they would swear he was smiling. 

The early morning sun on the first day of March shone on the empty garden of G.Host’s house, on the curtained windows and the locked front door. Kitty, who had spent the night somewhere close, jumped down from the stone fence, crossed the garden and approached the front door warily. When she made sure the ghost was gone, she deftly leaped on the ledge next to her bowl. It was untouched.